My Beloved Monster
by Bananas in Pajamas
Summary: A story of second chances, an irritable diety, a boring woman, and the shattered soul that unwittingly spices up her life.
1. Prologue

Title: My Beloved Monster

Author: Bananas in Pajamas

Prologue

_De profundis clamo ad te domine_

(From the depths I call to Thee, Lord)

If he was known for one thing, Erik – the infamous Opera Ghost – was known for his temper. He tried to suppress it…sometimes. However, his lack of contact with the world above the Opera Populaire's fifth cellar and his lack of discipline (because of a lack of parents) did not force or help him to grow up. He was more of an overgrown spoiled child – used to getting his way, and very set in said way as well. He struggled through the awkwardness of puberty and was stumbling through his early twenties – he was twenty-three to be exact – when he, the "Devil's Child" became the "Angel of Music" to the orphaned thirteen year old Christine Daaé.

For the next eight years, he watched and listened as her voice and beauty blossomed. She too went through the awkwardness of puberty, but with the guiding hands of Madame Giry and the ballet corps, she slowly developed into a kind, if naïve, young woman. Erik had never had that support – his "guiding hands" were books that Antoinette managed to sneak to him (she didn't like school work, but Erik delighted in doing it for her). His body and parts of his mind had matured, had aged and gained wisdom as his years beneath the opera passed, but a large part of him remained the scared, nine year old boy he had been when he first set foot in the Opera Populaire.

Without a mother to kiss his scraped knees and tuck him into bed, Erik grew up lacking compassion. Without a father to teach him the difference between right and wrong, Erik aged without a direction to his life. Because he didn't have friends to run through the streets with until the stars shone brightly, Erik missed out on human companionship and physical human contact. Yes, dearest reader, Erik grew up lonely, fell in love with a young woman destined to never return his affections, and was left by this young woman in his dark, wet cave beneath the opera. However, before she left him, he forced one promise from her – that when his obituary was seen in the daily newspapers, she would return to bury him.

Two weeks later, Erik could have been found in his cavern. His skin was paler than it ever had been before; his hair – or, rather, what was left after his raging – hung in oily, limp clumps; the fire that had once resided in the emerald and amber depths had been extinguished – his spirit was beyond broken, it was shattered into a million splinters; his beautiful, musician's – and murder's – hands were cut to ribbons from breaking all the mirrors in his home by pounding on them; his clothes hung off his frame even more than usual. It is true, reader, that Erik had always been rather thin since he often forgot to eat, instead, feeding his soul on his music but his bones were usually hidden beneath thick, corded muscle gained from his many years of haunting the opera –now, however, the muscle was gone, and every breath he took was forced. I say forced because Erik believed his heart was so full of love for Christine Daaé that any movement of it, he fancied, only stirred up memories of their lessons together. He often saw memories of her clear blue eyes or her golden curls. Sometimes he saw her smiles, but what he often saw were her tears as she kissed him. She had been willing to give up her life, her happiness, and her love for the Vicomte in exchange for the lives of all those in the opera house. He could not take those from her, no matter how much he had wanted to – for if he did, then he would be the monster Meg Giry claimed him to be – and he released her.

He was past the point of no return. No amount or combination of bed rest, food, medicine, or love, would save Erik now. He had wordlessly raged through his beautiful, though eclectic, home – destroying anything his hands touched – but now, with the knowledge that he was drawing his last few breaths, Erik cried out.

"Why, God?" he sneered, "Why did You choose this body, this mind, this _heart_ to torture? Did You enjoy my loneliness? Was my heartbreak _amusing_ to You? Was pleasure found in the tormenting of my soul? I could have given her anything – everything! I would have climbed to the moon for her or died a thousand horrible deaths, had she asked, but you took her from me and gave her heart to that…that…that**_ boy_**! All I had ever wanted was to love and be loved. You didn't even give me that. I die now because of my love for her. I heard that Satan was throwing a masked ball. It seems I shall fit in just fine – no need to worry about me. You never did."

With this being said, Erik's heart stopped beating.

God was most certainly _not_ a happy camper after hearing Erik's words. _'Never worried about him? The delusional chap! Why did he think he had such a flair for music – because he lived under an opera? What about Antoinette? I gave him the gift and the means to use it – he ruined his own chances!'_ But even as the Lord was thinking this, He was reading through Erik's book, closing His eyes in sorrow as He read of the horrors that had filled that tortured soul's lifetime. He could understand, now, why Erik would say what he did. _'Perhaps,'_ God mused, '_I should give him some choices, maybe give him a second chance.'_ Snapping His fingers, God brought Erik before Him.

"Erik," His voice boomed, "I have decided to give you a set of choices. You may take as long as you want to answer, but remember, time is also passing on Earth, and you know what they say, 'A day with the Lord is as a thousand years.' Remember, there is no set fate for a person, my son. Your decision now will affect the rest of your life."

Erik, however, spit at God's feet. "And what have _you_ done for _me_, monsieur?"

"Did it ever occur to you that the earth is not Erik-centric? That you are nothing more than an ant to me, scurrying around, doing nothing to help yourself while those around you work and try their hardest before asking for help? You asked for me to do everything for you, but you are a grown man, and should have tried to help yourself. Now be quiet and listen – these are your choices. You can have Christine with you forever, have the love of a woman, or you can become handsome. I suggest that you choose wisely, Erik."

Erik found himself sitting on a lone cloud. His first reaction had been to choose Christine (of course), but, God had said to have her _with_ him, not have her _love_ him. There was a significant difference between the two. She had been terrified of his face – he didn't want her terror or pity, he had wanted her heart. Besides, he admitted silently, she loved the Vicomte (and he her) with the same fire that Erik had loved Christine. It would be wrong to take her away from that.

He had always wanted the love of a woman…someone to hold him, stroke his hair, and whisper her love to him. But, how could a woman love a murderous monster with a face such as he owned? It could not be of her own free will. Was God actually willing to take that blessed gift from someone so that he, Erik, could have a chance at happiness? The thought was tempting, that someone would love him (of course, Erik had not known to what depths and lengths Antoinette had gone to so as to protect him). Even though he had ruthlessly murdered and executed many – at times even taking a sick delight in the power he had held over his victims – Erik sullenly and hesitantly acknowledged that he would not want his free will taken from him. This choice too, would be the wrong one. _'I suppose I'm not made for love and going out on Sundays,' _Erik moaned to himself.

That left becoming handsome. True, he mused, looks aren't everything. But he knew that his music would be more accepted, should he not be so grotesque. Plus, he could rid himself of that damnable mask that had mocked him so often throughout his life. Music had always filled most of the void where a woman's love should have been – though he hadn't played or sung a note since Don Juan – and perhaps, music was all he was would need now.

He made his choice. He chose wisely.


	2. Chapter 1: No Weddings and a Funeral

Title: My Beloved Monster

Author: Bananas in Pajamas

Chapter 1: No Weddings and a Funeral

You know what the trouble about real life is? There's no danger music.

- Jim Carrey

Routine.

Such a lovely, reassuring word. It's the security of knowing that every day won't stray from the ordinary, the real, the believable. Or so Moira Lazos thought. Moira was the type of person who needed a routine for her sanity; however, she was not a person who planned her life to the very hundredth of a second. She simply got uncomfortable without a routine of sorts, though she hadn't always lacked that _joie de vive _that graced most people her age.

In college she had partied a little and had gone out with friends to interesting places, like Pike Place Street Market and the pier, and done interesting things, like feeding the seagulls at Ivar's. She even had a few dates with some guy named Tony. But when she applied for a job at Renton High School, she hadn't expected to be accepted, and now, four years later, a part of her wished that she hadn't.

She was the youngest employee, the next being five years her senior at thirty-one. It wasn't that her fellow teachers were cruel or malicious, they just ignored her. Moira took this personally, though that was a large mistake on her part. Most of the older teachers felt threatened by the presence of such young blood in such a confident, likeable teacher. Had they seen through Moira's bravado, perhaps they would have been a bit kinder. As it was, she was acquainted with most of the faculty in the strictest of terms – names, faces, and departments. Anything beyond that was uncharted territory that she was too shy to explore and other teachers were too withholding to willingly share.

Her students liked her because she was funny, didn't give too many papers, and rarely allowed her students to fail – and only then had failure been the last option. As Moira jogged with her breath coming in short gasps, she ruminated on the upcoming year. She was going to teach the AP English Literature class. It was a daunting task, and a part of her couldn't help but wonder if it was a way of testing her skills. She had sent out a summer reading list and she had several ideas to make the year interesting and informative, but she would have to check the budget before anything was final.

A stinging drop of sweat dripped into her eye, jerking her from her workaholic tendencies. Her thoughts soon drifted home to Ulysses, her graceless Burmese cat, and her routine shower and breakfast which always followed her jog. Ah, yes. Do not forget the word, 'routine'. As Moira thought of what she had planned out for the day, she began to wonder when she had become such an "anal-retentive, obsessive compulsive, second-counting, first rate lunatic", in the less than delicate phrasing of her younger brother, Marcos.

Perhaps the lack of peers at work had something to do with her current hermit impersonation. Maybe it was the fact that none of her friends, with the exception of Carl, had kept in touch after college. It could have been that only she, Marcos and his wife and child, and Alexandros lived in Seattle; the rest of the family – Momma and Papa Lazos, Matthias, Nikolaos, and Theodoros – lived in Spokane. Whatever the reason for Moira's reclusive inclinations, she sadly acknowledged the fact that her social life was certainly rotting six feet under.

However, the wild part of her (the one that got her those tattoos one night – we'll come to those later, reader) wondered if she would be able to pull a Dr. Frankenstein and resurrect the corpse of her social life. Her rational side balked somewhat; _'We have to set an example for our students, and that doesn't include coming to school with a hangover or with another tattoo.'_ A long ignored side, her spontaneous side, felt that it was time to move on to another city or go on a road trip – Seattle didn't have much to offer her anymore (or so Spontaneous thought).

Moira stopped jogging, closed her eyes, and gripped her head. "Dear Lord, I'm becoming Sybil Dorsett," she joked, recalling the disturbing story of a young woman with multiple personalities that she had read for a psychology class that she taken. Since it _was_ Seattle, she wasn't surprised by the chilly breeze that had slowly been picking up in the grey hours of the early morning, nor was she shocked when she felt a few icy drops on her bare shoulders and arms. What _did_ surprise Moira was what she saw when she opened her eyes. No more than thirty feet from her, a black form was slumped against a trash can. She would have passed the person by without a second glance – as homeless people often spent the night in this particular park – had it not been for the fact that ten seconds before, the person had not been on the ground and seemingly dead.

* * *

When Erik appeared in front of God again with his choice, the Almighty looked at His Rolex wrist watch (what? Were you expecting a Casio?). Thirty years, give or take. He must have spent some time thinking about the choices to spend the equivalent of thirty years on Earth. Hang on. Thirty – odd years… something was nagging God in the back of His mind. Pulling out date book #1839235 and flipping to the year – 1915 to be exact – He now realized why Erik shouldn't go back just yet. The Lord would have slapped His forehead, had Erik not been there. How could He forget World War I? He gulped. Time to stall.

"So, Erik...do you have a middle name?"

"You should know _that_."

"Right then, that's a no. How about your decision?"

"I want to go back and take the third choice, becoming handsome."

"Yeah, um, that's the thing. You _really_ shouldn't go back yet. Trust me on that one."

"So, what do we do then?"

"Do you like ping pong?"

* * *

Moira weighed her options. She could help the person, or run in the other direction and get help. The former would be dangerous since there weren't many joggers out that morning, but the latter would take too long. Mentally injecting her spinal cord with steel, she sprinted over to the person – a man – and checked him for signs of breathing, but she found none.

The oddest thing happened then – his eyes shot open, revealing the most shocking green and amber eyes she had ever seen. Moira once again checked for a pulse, which was now strong and steady, and she heard him taking deep breaths. She sat back on her heels and looked at him. The right side of his face was covered in what looked like a white porcelain mask, but his left side was left uncovered. _'Andrew Lloyd Webber, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways,'_ she chortled to herself. With this in mind, she grinned at the man in front of her.

"How much did Alexandros pay you?" she said, standing up and stretching out the leg muscles that would undoubtedly cramp in the now inclement weather. The look on the actor's face was priceless. "You know, my brother, Alexandros? What did he pay you to dress up like the Phantom of the Opera? I mean, yeah, my life may be less than exciting and my brothers have been trying to make my life interesting, but honestly. Couldn't they come up with something a little more original? Maybe George of the Jungle or Spiderman would have been a better choice…"

"I assure you, mademoiselle, that I am no actor, but you are correct. I _am_ the Phantom of the Opera," a silken voice intervened, "Perhaps you would be so kind as to tell me what year it is?"

"It's 2005," she said, warily watching the tall man unfold himself from his slumped position to one that towered over her five feet, three inch frame. _'Of all the days _not_ to have my Mace,'_ she grumbled to herself.

"So, Erik," she said, noting the shock on his face…well…the visible half anyway, "Oh! I take it that Alexandros didn't tell you I'm a literature major? No? It means I know _all_ about you – your name, the Grasshopper and the Scorpion, and the ventriloquism. Too bad you're only a character from a book, and therefore, do not exist."

"Who told you my name, woman?" he growled, gripping her upper arms tightly, his leathered hands warming the chilled skin beneath them.

Two things alone kept Moira from making another smart comment – one, there was a hunted, scared look in the man's eyes that made her wonder briefly if he might actually be who he said he was, and two, she was being held an inch or so off the ground effortlessly. Moira was not the most perceptive of people, as you will later see, but that she had been able to read his eyes in that moment had been a little of God's doing. After all, who do you think put Erik in front of her?

"Let go of me. Please."

The gentle plea wormed through the veil of anger that had slipped over his eyes and affected his brain. Slowly, Erik placed the small woman back on solid ground, wincing inwardly at the faint bruises that he knew were only going to get darker. _'Is this how a gentleman treats a lady?'_ his inner voice taunted, _'Is this how Christine would want you to act?'_ Erik's heart constricted painfully inside his chest, as though someone had tied his catgut friend around his delicate heart and pulled too tightly.

'_He's crazier than Napoleon when he died, and he died because of advanced syphilis…turned his brain into Swiss cheese_,_'_ she thought, _'I need a plan and fast. I don't think I could outrun him…outsmart him, perhaps.'_ If this tale were a cartoon, instead of the highly stylized, well written story that it is, a light bulb would have illuminated above her head.

"I know where you can find Christine," she said, relying on the hallucinations of this obviously delusional man to help her make her escape.

* * *

Hitting the rewind button of Time, I would like to bring you, my dear reader, to Erik's demolished home in the fifth cellar of the Opera Populaire in Paris, France of 1871.

_Erik is no more._

The obituary called Christine and Raoul back to the cavern under the Opera Populaire to fulfill Christine's promise. The sight of Erik's body, with its sliced hands, paler than pale skin, and clumps of hair that were lying around the once immaculate grotto brought tears to the young woman's eyes. She may have loved Raoul and wanted to marry him, but she loved Erik too. I do not mean she loved him as a wife loves her husband, but as a daughter who loves her father. Erik had come to her when she needed the protection and guidance of a father, and to her young mind, he had filled that role.

She had always felt a connection to him, a tie that had bound a small part of their souls together. It had become apparent the night that Erik had taken her to his home, invading her senses with his haunting songs. After seeing the wedding dress and knowing his intentions for her, Christine had been overcome with feelings of fear and betrayal. She wondered how a man that she had seen as an angel sent from her father and who she came to regard as an adopted father, could want to marry her. The thought alone was revolting.

It was because of their special bond that she had been able to sense him. She could still feel him, as though her mind and heart refused to accept the fact that Erik was dead and that he was never coming back. With this thought in mind, she tearfully turned to Raoul, her pillar of strength, and buried her face into the soft folds of his cravat. She knew without a doubt that she would not be able to marry Raoul as long as she was tied to Erik. She wanted to give Raoul her entire body, heart, and soul, and she felt that she couldn't do that as long as the ghost of the Opera Ghost haunted her. Long engagements were popular and they were still young. Besides, it shouldn't take more than a few months to exorcise her own personal demon, the voice in the back of her head that told her Raoul only noticed her when she was in the spotlight and didn't truly love her.

* * *

If Moira had known what events her seven words to the stranger had set in motion (for those of you who forgot, the words were "I know where you can find Christine."), she might have been a little more believing and a little less suspicious. As it is, life doesn't come with erasers. Just apologies.

**A Note to the Readers:** Sybil Dorsett actually existed, but the name was changed to protect the woman it was about. There have been debates over whether or not she truly had Multiple Personality Disorder, as her case was so severe. The book itself is a gruesome story of the abuse that a schizophrenic mother rained upon her daughter (Sybil), and how it later affected Sybil. You should **_not _**read this if you have suffered abuse, and even if you haven't, it is very hard to read through certain parts. You have been warned. The movie version, with Sally Field, was possibly one of the best movies I had ever seen, despite the horrors it revealed.

**A Second Note the Readers:** Advanced syphilis causes the cerebral cortex to melt, if I'm not mistaken. Either way, Napoleon went crazy because of it, and it later caused his death. I assure you though, he was nutty.

**A Third and Final Note (these seem to be like Steven Segal movies - they just never stop coming):** I apologize for being remiss in bringing you this chapter. The second one is on its way and should arrive by late Saturday night if I am lucky. I work 38 hours a week and I come home smelling like chlorine (I work at a pool) and exhausted, since I work evenings. Forgive me for letting this take far too long.


	3. Chapter 2: Mad as a Hatter

**Quick Note: **I don't live in Seattle, but I visit occasionally for family gatherings. I don't know many streets, buildings, or whatnot. Forgive me.

Title: My Beloved Monster

Authoress: Bananas in Pajamas

Chapter 2: Mad as a Hatter

_Hei mihi, insanire me ajunt, ultro cum ipsi insaniunt_

(They call me mad, while they are mad themselves)

Plautus

"I know where you can find Christine."

In a bout of pure muscle memory (in this case, reader, the muscle happened to be his heart), Erik opened his lips to ask "Where?" but stopped himself on "Wh…" and then closed them, looking for a moment like a large mouth bass. Slowly, the cogs began to rotate in his head.

'_If this is indeed 2005, then I am one hundred and thirty-four_ _years in the future. Christine, my angel, is long since dead…but this woman claims to know where she is. Perhaps she has escaped from a nearby asylum. Only a crazy woman would believe that my angel still lives. I should be careful around her…'_

Moira fiddled with the hem of her tank top as the daunting man quietly regarded her with what could have been suspicion – she wasn't sure. A thought sprang into her head – the homeless shelter ten, maybe fifteen, minutes from where they stood. A friend of Alexandros' girlfriend owned it.

"If you, um, walk about ten minutes that way," she said, pointing towards a sidewalk that lined Rowan Street, "and then turn left on Magnolia, you should see a large brick building. If you tell Donald that Moira sent you, you can get whatever help you need."

The man gracefully bowed his head in thanks before striding off in the direction she pointed.

'_No way could I have outrun him,'_ she thought, noting the way his long legs strode over the park grounds.

Reverting to his native French, Erik muttered to himself as he stalked towards the building that girl…woman…person had directed him to. He wasn't entirely sure it was a good idea to come here. At least he had his trusty Punjab lasso.

Going up a short flight of four or five stairs, Erik found himself standing in front of a door that had "Rehabilitation Center and Shelter for the Homeless" scrawled on it in faded and chipped white paint. Pushing the door open, he walked in, over the cracked linoleum floor, through a glass door, and into a lobby filled with destitute men, women, and even a few children. The smell of sweat, dirt, blood, and alcohol accosted his delicate half-nose and made his eyes water. How people could actually _live _like this was beyond his reasoning.

All eyes snapped to his resplendent and oddly fashioned clothing, impeccable white porcelain mask, and slicked back hair…er…wig. He felt incredibly uncomfortable being the center of attention, and so he deposited himself in a dark corner and waited for the woman behind the desk to put down the oddly shaped device that she was talking into.

Moira skipped up the last few stairs into her apartment building, strolled into the elevator, and pressed button _14_. After a short trip down the hallway and when faced with the locked door that led into the apartment she shared with Alexandros, Moira pulled the spare key out of her shoe and opened the door. She was greeted by a cool blast of air from the air conditioner and she sighed in contentment when it lifted a few sweaty strands of her light red hair off of her forehead.

As her routine dictated, Moira headed towards the bathroom for a cleansing and refreshing shower. Twenty minutes later, her hair was wrapped up in a towel-turban, her body was covered in a cozy, well-worn, lime green robe, and her slipper-covered feet were shuffling about in the kitchen. Of course, she was preparing a routine breakfast – eggs, bacon, and two frozen waffles heated in the temperamental toaster. Her tea sat brewing on the table, Ulysses was still asleep in the exact, mathematical center of her bed, and the weather channel was on. Life was going as it did every morning of every day for Moira.

The thought of calling Alexandros and berating him for his antics flitted through her brain, but was quickly fly-swatted with the knowledge that more likely than not, he was in an area that did not have good, if any, cell reception. _'Damn tugboats' need for cooks,'_ she grumbled to herself. It would be two weeks before she saw him again, and then only for two days – and those were usually devoted to Rosalyn, his girlfriend. Thinking quietly, she chewed a piece of waffle; maybe she could just fill his shoes with pineapple Jell-O again.

Erik, our beloved Opera Ghost, wasn't known for being particularly patient, but he did his best and sat silently in the corner,twiddled his thumbs and listened to the seemingly one-sided conversation the receptionist was having. Whatever the conversation was about, Erik noted that it contained a generous amount of "Yeah", "Uh-huh", "Like, oh my God!" and "Oh for sure." Erik wisely resisted the temptation to roll his eyes, if opera spooks actually rolled their eyes.

As his thoughts drifted to the three day ping pong tournament up on high, a nasal voice shattered what little peace Erik had been able to gather in this strange world.

"Can I help you?"

His eyes snapped forwards and watched as the woman's lips formed the words again and his ears bore testament to the nails-on-chalkboard voice that that she possessed.

"Can I help you?"

Standing up and walking over, Erik informed the slightly obnoxious receptionist that he needed to talk to Donald.

"Yeah? Who doesn't? Well, I'll just go on back and get him for you," she replied sarcastically.

"Thank you, mademoiselle," he replied.

"You don't get it, do you hon? He may be a nice guy, but Donald doesn't see many of the type of people that come _here_ for help."

"I'm to tell him that 'Moira' sent me, if that helps." He was getting irritated. De…de…definitely definitely irritated by this woman whose hair was an unnatural shade of yellow. Besides, she kept making this particularly annoying popping sound that came from some pink goop that would occasionally come out of her mouth.

At the name 'Moira,' the woman stopped her irritating bubble blowing and Erik could have sworn that her face paled considerably. Ah…to be back in power.

It had been almost a week since Moira had stopped in Sunrise Park to help that stranger and she hadn't thought of him since she had stepped out of the shower that very morning. But one day, a Tuesday if you want to be precise, as Moira returned from grocery shopping, the phone rang.

It was Donald.

He was not happy.

The man she had sent to the shelter had been condescending to everyone there and late Monday night he almost killed somebody. This 'somebody' happened to be Lars, a frequenter of the shelter, and a favorite of most there since he was a happy drunk. He had been a "bit more drunk than usual" and inquired about the porcelain mask on the stranger's face. Apparently, Erik had growled at the small, balding man and then ignored him. Though Lars was a happy drunk, he could also be a very determined drunk, and he ripped the mask away from Erik's face. Soon, Erik's fingers were getting acquainted with the exterior of Lars' throat when the old man choked out, "Nuffin' a wittle pwastic sururey won' fix."

(If you didn't understand his drunken slur, it can be translated into: "Nothing a little plastic surgery won't fix.")

It was this simple sentence that saved Lars' life.

Apparently, Donald wasn't keen on having such a liability staying at his establishment and he was going to ban him from the premises. This 'liability' claimed she was the only other person that he knew in Seattle and this statement prompted Donald to give him directions to her apartment.

To many, the idea that Donald would give a violent man the directions to Moira's apartment is probably atrocious. I agree. It's barbaric and awful and despicable, but it was Donald's way of getting back at Moira for turning down the prospect of spending the rest of her life with him.

Yes, you read that right. He proposed. She declined.

It was inevitable, their lukewarm love affair, what with her brother dating his friend. Blind dates happen…what can I say? They had been involved for a month and a half (most of their time was spent playing phone tag) when Donald had proposed. He felt that he had found the perfect woman. Sure, she could have been a _bit_ taller, agreed with him more often, worn a tad more makeup and contacts and gotten a little more dressed up for their dates, but she was smart and she had a graceful nature and a pretty smile (which would come in handy when he schmoozed with the wealthy, hoping to get funding for the shelter).

His heart had been broken when she ended the relationship and it seemed as though she was determined to stay acquaintances. He still loved her, even after two years (during which he had grown somewhat bitter), and now his only connection to her was through some degenerate who had nearly strangled a defenseless old drunk. Oddly, Moira was the only person that he knew in Seattle, so why, then, should he _not_ give this man directions to her?

Moira could have reached through the receiver and smacked Donald. While pleasant thoughts of leaving an angry, red handprint on the face of that smug, self-important, presumptuous, ass of a man ran through her mind, a buzz resonated through the apartment.

In the paraphrased words of the writer of _Close Encounters of a Third Kind_: "He's heeeeeere."

In all the days of his life, Erik had never even condescended to the thought that he might need the help of another person. A crazy person, no less. Not just _any_ crazy person, a crazy _woman_, to be exact. But he found himself outside of her 'apartment', pressing a button, and hoping (he hadn't started praying yet) that the off-kilter woman was home.

An unknown emotion passed through him when nothing happened. There was nothing – no returning buzz, as Donald had said there would be, no recognition that he even existed. Giving up, he slowly turned from the building and headed back to the park that was on the other side of the street.

He sat on a bench and stared at the building like he had for the entire morning. He had seen her jog back to the apartment and go in. He had watched as she left and then returned bearing two brown paper bags. In all the time that he had spent watching her that day, he had yet to get the courage to go to her and ask for help, until a few moments earlier when the odd, unfamiliar feeling passed through his body.

Now that he thought about it, he was loathe to admit that the feeling might have been fear. Of all things that he could have felt, it was fear. Fear that the one person in this enormous city who he even slightly knew – and all he knew was her name and where she lived – might not _want_ to help him. Perhaps she was frightened of him, not that he blamed her. He seemed to have that effect on people.

But still, how was he to fix his curse? He had been under the impression that God would send him _back_ handsome; not send him back disfigured and horrifying to be _fixed_ like…like… like some child's plaything that was accidentally broken.

He laughed at that last thought. _Broken_. He was broken, physically, mentally, emotionally. He was a broken toy. A pawn of God's glass chess set that had been shattered – not snapped or chipped and then easily repaired or replaced – beyond recognition. He wondered why his mental and emotional destruction didn't seem to physically manifest itself. He was destroyed on the inside, so how could it be possible that he could still walk and talk and breathe? Why did he not crumple on the pavement as a tangled, jumbled mess that, like his mind, would be an incredibly tough knot to unravel?

A flash of green and red stopped his destructive musings. Someone was coming across the street. _Moira_ was coming across the street.

'_Why?'_ he wondered, _'Why is she coming _back _to the park?'_

Then, he realized, she was looking at _him_, and making her way towards _him_.

Now that he saw her in broad daylight (something he normally tried to avoid at all costs), he noticed that she had a light smattering of freckles across her cheek bones and her nose. Christine didn't have freckles. No. She had skin like ivory silk – soft, smooth, radiant, and warm. His angel was perfect in every way and she would remain perfect in his memories despite her death.

He also noted, with amusement, that the top of her head barely reached the middle of his chest. She didn't look strong; maybe he could manipulate her like he had Christine and get her to help him with this "plastic surgery". As his thoughts began to travel down the well-known path of Christine-induced pain, a voice cut through his memories, shredding the film of his mind-made "home" movies.

"Hello, Erik."


End file.
